By C.W. Emerson
Featured Art: by Arthur Lazar
Didn’t I stand there once,
dripping water onto the catwalk
above the motel pool?
And weren’t we luminous then?—
our bodies glistening,
pale as the slice of winter moon
that hung in a Vegas sky.
Wasn’t there a door, a threshold,
one simple, white-walled room?
Didn’t we taste peyote’s fire,
christen ourselves with totemic names?—
wouldn’t I become Gray Wolf,
Bitter Oleander, Monkshead, Moss?
And you would have been
Bobcat, Lily of the Valley, my love,
Salt Cedar, Eucalyptus—
if only you’d lived a little longer.
C.W. Emerson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Greensboro Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Tupelo Quarterly, and others. He was a finalist for the 2018 New Millennium Award for Poetry, and he works in Los Angeles and Palm Springs as a clinical psychologist.